


Loss

by cathema



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Character Death, background Roceit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29288814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathema/pseuds/cathema
Summary: Virgil returns to a place filled with unpleasant memories and the ghost of a man he loved and lost. He doesn't want to be there, but he needs to be. He's grieved for far too long.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Deceit | Janus Sanders
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	Loss

**Author's Note:**

> This story is about coping with the death of a loved one. It's heavy. Please read at your own risk.

_“The way he treated me and the way I treated him, the way we took care of each other and our family, while he lived. That is so much more important than the idea I will see him someday. I don't think I'll ever see Carl again. But I saw him. We saw each other. We found each other in the cosmos, and that was wonderful.”_

― _Ann Druyan_

* * *

The autumn winds are crisp and cool in this part of town where Virgil stands, cold hands shoved deep inside his jacket pockets and a heavy bag slung over his shoulder. He stares at the view atop a hill—the warm noon sunlight bathing the buildings with a bright yellow glow. And yet, he shivers. He doesn’t want to be here.

His phone buzzes inside his pants and, for a moment, he’s tempted to ignore it. But the vibrations send shockwaves through his body that become too much to ignore. He takes it out and stares at the caller ID. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, before hitting “end.” He swipes his lock screen open and composes a quick text. Then, he resumes his waiting.

“A call is much more efficient, you know. It’s not like he’s a stranger.”

Virgil ignores the voice. A few minutes later, he sees a black car turn from the corner and stop in front of him. He stares at the tinted window of the passenger seat, his gaze unwavering as the window lowers to reveal a person staring back at him.

“Let’s go, Virgil,” Janus, his brother, says with a nod.

Virgil sighs and enters the back seat, barely acknowledging his brother and his fiancé, Roman, at the wheel. Roman flashes a welcoming smile at him. “It’s been way too long, Marilyn Morose,” he says. “Not even a hi?”

Virgil rolls his eyes. Roman’s still the same, no matter how many years have gone by since he left home. He waves at him, as friendly as he could, and Roman accepts it with a satisfied hum.

He starts driving and Virgil settles comfortably at the back seat, ignoring the way Janus was peering at him in the small space between the headrest and the window. He doesn’t want to be here. And yet he is.

It doesn’t take long before they reach home—or, rather, what Virgil once called home. He had shared it with Janus and their mother before he left three years ago. He’s never come back since, not even when their mother succumbed to her fatal illness and passed away. It’s Janus’ home now and, as it seems, Roman’s too, evidenced by the radiant red rose bushes that adorned the front yard. Janus had always hated flowers and the very thought almost made Virgil laugh, how love could change a person completely. He knows. He knows it well. He lives with the thought every waking moment of his life.

The three step out of the car and enter the house. Virgil takes it all in, scanning the walls, the tables, and the furniture—some unchanged, others new. His eyes land on Janus, staring at him with an unreadable expression.

“Thank you for not letting me resort to violent means just to haul your ass back here,” Janus tells him with a hint of contempt.

Virgil shrugs and Janus bites his bottom lip. “Still not talking, huh?” he mumbles before heading to the kitchen where Roman is pouring glasses of cold water. Roman brings one over to Virgil, who nods appreciatively.

“Don’t worry,” Roman tells him with a wink. “I know exactly how to cheer you up. By the way, your room’s still intact.”

Virgil takes that as a cue to head upstairs, making a beeline for his old bedroom which, just as Roman promised, still looks the same way Virgil left it—only with cleaner sheets.

He locks the door behind him and throws his bag on the floor. He lies on his bed, putting his headphones over his head, and closes his eyes as the music he plays from his phone fills the deafening silence all around him.

“You’re not going to isolate yourself in here, are you?”

Virgil opens his eyes.

“It’s quite depressing in here.”

Virgil scoffs and pulls off his headphones. “Okay,” he croaks, “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“People rarely have. That doesn’t stop me from giving it.”

Virgil turns his head to the side. He gazes at a figure, dressed in a crisp black shirt and a neat blue tie, scrutinizing him through black-framed glasses. In spite of himself, Virgil smiles and he rolls over, placing his head on the figure’s lap before closing his eyes once more. “You’ve always been an asshole, L.”

He falls asleep to the rhythmic sensation of slender fingers combing through his hair.

When Virgil wakes, it’s because of a loud ruckus downstairs that echoes throughout the house. It’s evening now and Virgil’s entire room is enveloped in darkness. Fucking jetlag, he thinks.

“You should head down,” the voice beside him says. “It’s rude to keep guests waiting.”

Virgil snorts, wrapping his arms around the figure’s waist. “So what? I’m a guest here too.”

“Virgil,” the voice chides.

“Logan,” Virgil groans back.

“Virgil!” Roman’s muffled voice calls from a distance. Virgil sucks in a breath and grasps at the sudden emptiness. His heart stills and he counts to 10, mustering enough courage to slide off the bed and leave the dark void of his room.

When he heads downstairs, he sees the two visitors talking with Roman by the couch. One of them whips his head around to gawk at Virgil with wide, unbelieving eyes, and unceremoniously leaps to his feet with a huge grin on his face. “What’s up, motherfucker!” he yells, running across the floor to envelop Virgil in a tight embrace.

Virgil chokes a laugh, feeling genuinely happy to see his former best friend Remus, still as crass and forward as he has always been.

“Bitch, you look even more dead than usual!” Remus cackles as he lets Virgil go to get a good look at him. “What, were they just sucking your soul out there in Russia?”

Virgil wrinkles his nose and holds up his middle finger jokingly. He notices Remus’ mouth twitch slightly.

“Ah fuck,” he says. “Guess Roman really wasn’t shitting me; you’re still not talking.”

Virgil rolls his shoulders apologetically.

He then sees the other visitor, Patton, approach him with a warm smile. “Hey Virge,” he says. “Welcome back.”

Virgil smiles back at him and tentatively opens his arms, letting Patton hug him tenderly.

Janus pokes his head through the doorway of the kitchen and clears his throat. “Dinnertime.”

Dinner is clamorous and lively, and for a moment Virgil feels disoriented. The noise is familiar and comforting—a reminder of a past that was full of joy and abandon. Three years have gone and yet everything feels the same: the twins Roman and Remus regaling the table with stories and petty squabbles, Patton bringing a breath of fresh air with his jokes and giggles, and Janus offering snide remarks, dramatic eye rolls, and the occasional coquetry towards Roman that never fails to make Remus gag. But it’s the haunting feeling of something that’s missing that Virgil can’t seem to shake, and so he keeps his head low and eyes focused on the plate of food right in front of him.

He doesn’t want to be here.

“So, how are preparations coming along?” Patton asks from across the table, beaming at the newly engaged couple seated on Virgil’s left.

“It’s been going well,” Roman answers. “I mean, Jan’s great at making thinly-veiled threats.”

“I _don’t_ know what you’re talking about,” Janus answers in a teasing tone.

“All I care about is the open bar,” Remus moans. “I’m gonna get fucking hammered! Right, V?”

Virgil snorts. He remembers the college days when he always had to carry a passed-out-drunk Remus, who always seemed to have an article of clothing missing and dried up vomit on his chin, back to his dorm room. It had always annoyed Virgil, but he didn’t mind. He always had help carrying Remus’ body with...

“By the mercy of Zeus, Remus please,” Roman pleads, “don’t go crazy drunk and pull down your pants in front of all the guests!”

“No promises, Ro-Ro!”

“At least save it until after you’ve _both_ said your speeches.” Janus looks at his brother with a glint in his eye. “Isn’t that right, Virgil?”

Virgil presses his lips into a thin line and averts his gaze. Janus’ stare is cold and firm, as though boring holes at the back of his skull.

“Jan,” he hears Roman whisper with reproach.

Remus claps his hands. “Shit, almost forgot!” he says, breaking the tension. “There’s a band playing live tomorrow, V. You can’t say no to me on this one. You know how many gigs I had to go to alone these past years? That ain’t fun, man.”

Virgil, in spite of himself, smiles at Remus and nods, earning a loud whoop from his friend.

Dinner ends soon after and Remus and Patton bid their goodbyes. Virgil heads straight to his bedroom, locking the door behind him with a tired grunt.

“That did not go well.”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Virgil answers through gritted teeth. He crouches down on the floor and zips his bag open, taking out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter he bought at a convenience store as soon as he arrived at the airport. He walks towards the window and opens it, leaning his body on the sill as he lights up one stick.

He watches the smoke swirl with the cold evening air as he says, bitterly, “They’re still the same. Nothing’s changed. As though nothing had happened.”

Logan squints his eyes. “Still the same? I presume so. People don’t shape-shift.”

Virgil snorts and hands over his lit cigarette for Logan to take. Logan hesitates, gingerly taking the stick from Virgil’s fingers and breathing in deeply, just how Virgil taught him all those years ago. Logan coughs, the way Virgil remembers he did the first time, and returns the stick with a grimace.

“Although, just my casual observations: Remus got slimmer,” Logan muses after a while. “And since when did Patton make those insufferable dad jokes?”

“You would have stopped him,” Virgil answers quietly. “You always did.”

“And I distinctly remember stopping you from continuing this unhealthy habit.” Logan wrinkles his nose in disdain as he waves the grey smoke with his hand.

Virgil smirks, resting his elbow on the sill. “Yeah. I said, ‘Make me.’ Remember what you did after?”

They stare at each other, a blurry haze still wafting between them like a veil. Virgil thinks that it’s always been like this—something fettering them from closing this space they share, that simply wanting to was never enough. Virgil watches Logan swiftly take the cigarette, burning out from neglect, and throw it out the window and into the pavement. Virgil stifles a laugh; it’s exactly how he remembers it happening.

He remembers wanting to do this too. He reaches for Logan, cupping the back of his neck, and leans forward to place a fervent kiss upon his lips.

Remus picks Virgil up with his beat-up car the next day and takes him around the city, chasing pigeons at the park, skipping rocks at the sea shore, and holding a contest to see who can make the grossest hotdog sandwich with edible ingredients. (Remus won by a landslide, just by sprinkling in some crumbs from a neglected half-eaten popcorn bag he found in his car compartment.)

It all feels nostalgic; Remus and Virgil had always been attached to the hip. They called themselves “The Misfits”—enduring their peers’ scorn for simply being themselves. Even when he left, Remus would incessantly send him emails and texts to talk about everything and nothing. Only a few times did Virgil bring himself to reply. He knows just how much being here matters to Remus.

For a moment, Virgil is glad to be here.

They watch the pop-up show of the local rock band they liked. Afterward, they sit at the sidewalk drenched in sweat and the beer Remus sprayed over themselves during their favorite song. Virgil wipes his damp face with the collar of his shirt, the corner of his lips turned up as Remus recounted the concert highlights.

“And when they sang ‘Butterfly Carnival’? Literal chills, like a rabid skunk just pushed itself up my anus!” Remus grins, shaking his head. “You know what I mean?”

Virgil snickers, raising his eyebrows in agreement.

“They even performed ‘Primera.’ They never do that live! That’s, like, your favorite song!” Remus jabs Virgil’s side with his elbow. “How the fuck could you have restrained yourself from screaming your lungs out?”

Virgil rolls his eyes, bemused. They settle into a comforting quiet, fatigued from a whole day of high adrenaline and physical exertion. Virgil could barely feel his limbs; he’s been cooped up indoors for far too long, it seems. He’s forgotten just how beautiful the orange glow of the sunset is, how calming the ebb and flow of the waves sound, how reassuring it is to be in the company of a friend he hasn’t lost.

“Virge,” Remus says, his tone becoming serious. “How are you?”

Virgil blinks at him, momentarily surprised, and gives him a thumbs up. Remus stares at the raised hand and sighs. “12 years, Virge,” he mumbles, “we’ve been friends for 12 years. I stuck by you through it all. Picked you up when ‘it’ happened. Fuck, I even helped get them off your back when you stopped wanting to talk. You leave and then come back, and I show you all these things that are worth living for and, holy shit, you’re _still not talking_.”

Virgil winces at the derision in Remus’ voice. Remus laughs, shaking his head. “I thought for sure you’d at least open up to me. Jesus Christ, V. I’m fucking trying here.”

Virgil wants to open his mouth. He wants to tell Remus the things he has kept buried in his heart—all the suffering, the fear, the guilt—but his throat runs dry and nothing comes out. Remus watches him closely and, shaking his head in disappointment, pushes himself off the pavement and walks away, leaving Virgil staring at the tattered fabric of his worn-out sneakers.

It’s when Virgil is alone when he feels most at peace in a place he swore never to return to again. Here, in the solace of his small childhood bedroom, where he and Logan both lie on the cool floor listening to the hushed notes of a song blaring through Virgil’s headphones that lay between them.

The sun from his window casts lines of bright light on Logan’s body and, for a moment, Virgil could have sworn he saw the dust particles dance around him, as though he was really here.

“What are you thinking about?” Virgil asks him.

Logan’s breath hitches. “A strange thought. Just...how I don’t want this moment to end.”

Virgil feels pinpricks of longing in his chest. He wants that too. He wants so badly for this moment, right here, to linger on. For time to stop and let him relish this feeling of belongingness to the only person who ever made his soul come alive.

He wants to be here.

Atop Virgil’s desk, a clock ticks ever on. There is a deafening silence that not even the soft music playing in the background could fill.

Logan turns his head to look at Virgil with a calm gaze, like he had been patiently waiting for Virgil to relax before he could speak. Virgil softens his panicked look and listens.

“There’s no good that comes out of allowing your mind to constantly revisit the unpleasant memories, you know,” Logan finally tells him.

“You’re the one who brought it up, L.”

“They’re _your_ thoughts, are they not?”

Right. Sometimes, Virgil forgets. Or, he chooses to. He thinks that maybe if someone else said it, then he wouldn’t feel so alone in thinking them.

“How long do you plan on staying this way?”

Virgil rolls to his side, his back turned towards Logan. The discussion ends there. The music continues to play. The clock continues to tick.

He purses his lips briefly before confessing to the emptiness, “I miss you.”

He hears Logan hum. “Me too.”

“That doesn’t mean that I don’t...” Virgil trails off. Logan waits for him to continue, but Virgil would never finish his sentence. He falls asleep to tears falling down his cheeks.

Sometimes, he forgets that Logan isn’t real. Days such as this, his head resting on Logan’s lap on a lonely afternoon while Logan reads his mystery novel.

“We should get a pet,” Virgil muses.

“Why?” Logan replies, though it sounded more like rejection than an honest question.

“Dunno. Just seems cool.”

Logan closes the book he is reading and gives Virgil a look. “You know you and I are the worst people anyone can rely on to take care of another living thing.”

“Ha. Even worse than Remus?”

“Do you recall when he took care of that rat he found near the sewers as though it was his infant?”

Virgil furrows his brows and shrugs. “Sounds just like him.” He looks up at Logan, a cheeky smile tugging at his lips. “Guess it’s just you and me.”

Logan says nothing.

And then, Virgil remembers.

It wasn’t always bad between him and Janus. In fact, he wouldn’t have flown home if it was. Growing up, Virgil relied on Janus for everything and Janus gave him all that he could. But it wasn’t enough for either of them to share their deeply-harbored secrets. Virgil kept his unsaid while Janus twisted conversations to his favor just to guard the truth from spilling out. They depended on their shared understanding to never force honesty and to just trust one another. When it mattered to Virgil most, Janus broke that promise. But no matter how wide the wedge had been driven between them, Virgil had no strength to hate his older brother. After all, he hates himself too. He’s weak. He’s pathetic. He’s still grasping at some faint sliver of hope that this is all a bad dream he’ll wake up from at some point.

Four goddamn years. It isn’t that everyone else hasn’t changed, despite what happened. Everyone did _because_ of what happened. Virgil has yet to. He doesn’t know if he ever will.

He hangs his head low as Janus converses with him in the living room, papers strewn all over the coffee table. Virgil listens half-attentively, drinking his hot honey lemon tea that Janus had made for him that afternoon.

“Dreadfully lovely, isn’t it, to speak to a brick wall?”

Virgil blinks and looks up at his brother. On Janus’ outstretched hand is a phone with a text-to-audio app open. Virgil hesitantly takes it and begins to type.

_'Thanks for the tea.'_

“Why are you here, Virgil?” Janus asks suddenly, his words laced with exhaustion. “Why are you home?”

_'You asked me to.'_

Janus clicks his tongue. “Let’s try this again. Why are you here?”

Virgil stares at him with an uncertain expression. Janus sets down his pen and folds his arms across his chest, leaning back against the chair. “I let you leave home, thinking it’s what’s best for you. Figured it would finally give you peace. I gave you _time_. You never even bothered to call all these years. Now you’re back. And you’re _still_ as pitiful as you were. Why are you even here?”

Virgil clenches his jaw, his thumbs hovering above the phone screen. Why was he here? He didn’t even want to be in the first place.

Janus eyes him. “You know, it affects us, what you do.”

At this, Virgil begins to type angrily.

_'I’m sorry that my method of coping is such an inconvenience to you.'_

“Sure, honey, let’s call it that,” Janus snickers with contempt. “‘Coping.’ You’re _totally_ not doing more harm than good to yourself. You’re doing _such_ a good job keeping your mental and emotional well-being intact.”

 _'Get off your high horse,'_ Virgil types. ' _You don’t get to dictate how someone deals with their pain. You’ll never understand my despair. I lie awake every night wishing I was dead. You never cared to know that! All you wanted was for all of us to forget, you selfish son of a—'_

Janus slams his palm on the table. “Damnit Virgil!” he yells. “You’re not the only one who lost someone!”

For a moment, Virgil feels like yelling back at him as raging fury fills his chest. _You’ll never get it_ , he wants to scream. _He meant everything to me!_ But he bites his tongue and curls his shaking hands into tight fists instead.

Janus runs a hand through his hair, letting out a long sigh. “He was our friend too. We suffered along with you. But the four of us got through the wreckage together while you ran away. Three years... and you’re still running, Virgil.”

Virgil stands abruptly, moving past Janus and towards his room in desperation to breathe. His heart drums loudly against his ribcage and his head spins. What does he do in these situations again? He forgets. Logan always knew. Logan always reined him in. Logan always held his hands and helped him count. Logan always assured him that things aren’t as bad as his mind makes them seem. Logan was an anchor that kept him from getting pulled into whirlpools and tempests. Logan gave him meaning.

But Logan isn’t here. He never was. Not when he crashed his car against a speeding truck four years ago.

A strong pair of arms envelop Virgil’s body in a tight embrace. Virgil leans into it, feeling the numbness of his body melt away slowly as he listens to Logan’s steady voice.

Five things you see, he says. Lamp. Mug. A picture frame. Virgil’s college art project. An old movie poster.

Four things you hear, he says. A tree branch thumping against the window. Janus pacing around the floor. The ticking of the clock. The creaking of the bed.

Three things you feel, he says. Heartache. Suffocation. Loneliness.

Two things you smell, he says. The lingering aroma of hot lemon tea. Cigarette smoke on his clothes.

One thing you taste, he ends. Nothing. Only Logan’s lips, chapped and dry, against his.

“He cares deeply for you,” Logan tells him quietly as he caressed the nape of Virgil’s neck.

Virgil chokes back a sob. “I didn’t even want to be here.”

“But you know why you are.”

Virgil knows. But he’s weak. He’s pathetic. He never wanted Logan to see him this way, fragile and broken, always teetering off the edge of actually ending it all. Then, he remembers how Logan always finds him that way anyway, choosing to stay no matter how much Virgil tells him to go.

Over and over, Virgil would try to push Logan away. Time and time again, Logan would pull him back in, never leaving Virgil’s side, holding him with all the affection his cold heart could stand. And Virgil would surrender, tired and empty, into the arms of Logan and slowly drift off to sleep to the rhythmic motions of a hand gently stroking the back of his head.

Even here, it’s still Logan helping him piece together all the broken parts of his soul. It’s far too much to bear.

“I want to, L,” Virgil mutters shakily. “Please. Help me forget about you.”

Virgil feels his whole body fall slowly backward unto his bed, his sheets covering up his shivering body. Fingers comb through his hair tenderly, lulling him slowly to sleep. He thinks that Logan is telling him something but the words don’t register inside his brain.

When he wakes, it’s past noontime and he jumps out of bed in a hurry.

The drive is quiet the entire time after Janus agrees to Virgil’s request. Jazz music hums softly through the radio and does nothing for Virgil’s nerves.

When Janus parks the car, they tread together in silence, through the grassy terrain littered with fallen leaves, until a tombstone comes into view.

Virgil stares at it, his labored breathing materializing into puffs of cold air. Janus stands beside him with an averted gaze. At the corner of Virgil’s eye, he sees Logan standing beside him too, looking at his own grave in contemplation.

Virgil brushes his fingers against Logan’s hand for strength. His grip feels hollow and unreal.

For the first time, Virgil speaks.

“Logan…” His voice is odd and scratchy that he almost doesn’t recognize it. Logan glances at him with an unreadable expression. Janus sucks in a steady breath, his eyes wide in astonishment and relief.

“I…” Virgil licks his lips in trepidation. “I lo… uhm—” His breathing quickens, his heart aching at his inability to say it out loud. He never did. He never had. Logan left without ever knowing.

Janus places a hand on Virgil’s shoulder. It’s warm and grounding unlike Logan’s, which disappears from his hold in an instant. “I know,” Janus whispers to him.

Virgil’s voice breaks. “I never got to tell him.”

“I’m sure he knows.”

“What would you have done if you were in my place?”

Janus mulls over the question, then shakes his head at a loss over what to say. Virgil purses his lips. “Thought so.”

“But you’ve grieved enough,” Janus says. “You have to let him go, Virgil. He deserves to rest.”

Virgil’s eyes flicker to Logan, who is sitting by his tombstone and staring back at him with a forlorn look. Virgil nods timidly.

Not wanting to display any more emotional weakness, Janus tells Virgil that he’ll wait in the car and leaves him to say his goodbyes.

“L,” Virgil whispers, “tell me a story.”

“Anything?”

“Something I don’t know.”

Logan takes his time. “I think that’s logically impossible.”

Virgil closes his eyes with dread. “And why is that?”

“Because I only exist in your head.”

And there it is—the one secret, finally laid bare, that crashes down on Virgil like a tidal wave. The ghost of the man he cared so deeply for has only been a mere projection of his memories—ones he’s treasured and kept hidden in his back pocket, forever close, forever haunting him, forever keeping him shackled to the life he can’t bear to let go.

Logan gazes at him with fondness lying under a thin veneer of pity. Is this how Logan always looked at him? Virgil isn’t sure anymore. All he knows is that under the bright blue sky and amid the gentle autumn breeze, Logan is beautiful and Virgil is in love.

Logan holds out his hand, clasping Virgil’s arm tightly. Virgil couldn’t feel a thing.

“It’s time for me to go.”

The words burn his skin and he shakes his head, tears teasing the corners of his eyes. He couldn’t. How could he? Without Logan...

“I wouldn’t know what to do,” Virgil mumbles in agony. “I need you.”

Logan shakes his head. “Then why are you here?”

The world goes still around him. He doesn’t want to be here. That’s why he is. A glooming peace washes over him as he replays the words in his head. “I love you,” he says. He always had. Virgil looks at Logan, waiting for an answer that doesn’t come. Logan holds him close, placing one final kiss on his forehead.

It would take a few more years for Virgil to forget. Logan would always have a special place in his heart, of course, but even people who have felt such incomprehensible loss can learn to love again.

Virgil has never seen Logan since. He’s certain he never will, not even when he’s breathed his last. But it’s alright because, for however brief his life will be, time had been so kind to have let them meet each other in the vastness of space and the immensity of time.

He owes it to Logan to stay here, to revel in the miraculousness of life and its mysterious ways, no matter how difficult, no matter how torrential.

For once, he wants to be here. And so he chooses to be.

_\- F I N -_


End file.
